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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29151192">I Was Eros, and You, Psyche</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alyss_Baskerville/pseuds/Alyss_Baskerville'>Alyss_Baskerville</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Of the House of Finwë [6]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works &amp; Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>(kind of... Silmarils and all), Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Celegorm is a smug jerk but he's also soft, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Dior is Eldritch, Dior is baby but he's also a force to be reckoned with, Dior is basically a Mary Sue with all the descriptions of how gorgeous he is, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Manipulation, Enemies to Lovers, Headcanons aggressively intertwined into the story, Hostage Situations, Kidnapping, Lima Syndrome, M/M, Mentions of Cousin Incest, Minor Original Character(s), Politics, Slow Burn, Slow To Update, Stockholm Syndrome, Unresolved Emotional Tension, as Tyelko will learn the hard way</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-04-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 09:20:10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>15,880</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29151192</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alyss_Baskerville/pseuds/Alyss_Baskerville</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>It all seemed so simple. So clear cut. Take Dior Eluchíl. Make the offer to Thingol and Melian, to Beren and Lúthien; your grandson, your son, for our Silmaril. Retrieve what was theirs. Return Dior Eluchíl. </p><p>But Celegorm underestimated Dior's mother, and he underestimates Dior, too.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Celegorm | Turcafinwë/Dior Eluchíl</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Of the House of Finwë [6]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1294124</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>36</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>51</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Prologue</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">


        <li>
            Inspired by

            <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/21793828">In the Company of Wolves</a> by <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/ancient_moonshine/pseuds/ancient_moonshine">ancient_moonshine</a>.
        </li>

    </ul></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Dior Eluchíl was nineteen years of age when Celegorm first saw him.</p><p>He supposes it must be some trick of Eru Ilúvatar, because what, exactly, were the chances that he would be skirting the very edges of Doriath only to stumble across the precious son of Beren and Lúthien dancing alone through the trees?</p><p>In hindsight, it’s quite hilarious. Doubtless that the tales of his rejection at Lúthien’s hands are dispersed far and wide across the continent and among all manner of ears; for him to encounter her child in the exact same way Beren encountered her is like a jest so cheap that it manages to become amusing.</p><p>Well, unlike Beren – or, as the songs would have people believe – Celegorm does not fall into love that very second. It is not anything like that, really – he is staring at a child, after all – but he is still struck dumb. And he still thinks that he may just have strayed into a dream.</p><p>Because he has simply never seen such <em>beauty. </em>Even when he laid his eyes upon Lúthien Tinúviel. Oh, there was no doubt about it that she had been <em>stunning</em>, sublime, ethereal and perfect and something distinctly not of this world, but in Celegorm’s opinion, her son had even more power to turn heads. (Though they did look very much alike – unnervingly so.)</p><p>Dior Eluchíl was not as <em>alien</em> as his mother, with that solid, untouchable ethereality that made her seem as if she was blurred, shrouded behind something unable to be discerned by the eye yet so potently <em>tangible</em> that one could practically reach out and touch it.</p><p>If Lúthien was like the cold and remote light of the stars personified, Dior was more akin to the cool, soft, beams of the moon; otherworldly but not quite as, frigid but a touch kindlier, distant but a hair closer – just as the full light of the moon gently illuminated the paths of travelers.</p><p>It made him enchanting.</p><p>Huge, almond-shaped, shining silvery eyes that captured every fracture of light that came into contact with them, set in long midnight lashes and positioned under straight, dark eyebrows. Fair, unblemished skin that almost looked like it had been sculpted from clay and given life. A face shaped to be nothing short of absolutely exquisite, narrow and tapering at the chin to come to a perfect, gentle point. A delicate nose that arched gracefully at the bridge; smooth, small cheekbones that gave a distinct air of timeless fragility, and an oval, slim jawline. A slender, rosepetal-pink upper lip with a defined Cupid’s bow, settling lightly above a full, smooth lower lip of the same hue.</p><p>A body boasting proportions of <em>frightful </em>perfection, rivaling the most intricately tailored of the Ainur’s chosen forms of the flesh. No part was too long, too short, too narrow, too wide, and the slender limbs flowed with all the grace and power of water. Unbound hair that seemed to be fashioned from the midnight ink of the clearest night sky and shimmer with the sheen of the stars, rippling, flowing with every elegant movement.</p><p>Ah, every <em>movement…</em></p><p>Celegorm remembers that he had not been able to achieve that kind of effortless finesse in his muscles until he was at least a hundred years old, and he spent at least fifty of those training and hunting and running through the forests of Oromë. Even then, he reserves that deft fluidity only for a hunt or a fight, where it is most useful. Otherwise, he simply… well, moves. It is the same with his brothers, and his cousins, and his uncles. Even his father.</p><p>Dior Eluchíl carried it out as naturally as breathing. Every movement free, every step uncalculated, every twirl spontaneous, and yet his poise rivalled those of the most exceptional warriors.</p><p>And even when his dance ended, and he sat down among the grasses and tree roots and bushes that were sticking out of the thin layer of snow, it was not so much a <em>sitting down </em>as it was a <em>sinking to the ground. </em>Everything, from his hair to his clothes settled perfectly about his body, as if animated by some unseen force.</p><p>His attire was a simple cotton white tunic that lacked even defined sleeves save for two wide holes in the fabric from which the hands could fit through, and merely fell loose over the body down to the shins, coupled with some vaguely fitting white trousers that were slightly too long and so covered his bare feet to the heels. Yet, on Dior Eluchíl the clothes looked as if they could put to shame the finest and most ornate garments that Celegorm had been forced by Amal to wear to many an unexciting social gathering held amongst the nobility of Aman.</p><p>Even the <em>grass</em>, the few withered <em>leaves, </em>seemed to bend in his direction. A cardinal flitted down from a tree branch and landed not two meters away from the spot where Dior Eluchíl was sitting. Dior smiled, stretching out a slender and beautiful hand towards the creature, and though Celegorm had no fondness for the peredhel, in that moment he felt as if a breath had been forcibly pulled from his lungs.</p><p>It was not about desire, or attraction, or lust. It was simply an objective, undeniable fact – Dior Eluchíl was <em>lovely. </em>Heartrendingly so, and Celegorm would not consider his heart particularly easy to rend.</p><p>And it took him a few, forcible seconds to draw himself from the daze he found himself in. For a moment, he was grateful that none of his brothers were with him, for he was sure that they would never let him hear the end of it, <em>especially </em>Curvo – but then he realized, with certainty, that every one of them would gawk at Dior Eluchíl just the same, if they were here.</p><p>From his cover behind the shadows of the tree line, he eyed the prince of Doriath sitting placidly among the snow and grass, the cardinal perched on an outstretched hand. They were just outside of the range of the Girdle of Melian; Celegorm did not know why Dior ventured out here (he also thinks him foolish for doing so – have his parents and grandparents taught him nothing?), but he knows that even a blind man would see this as the chance, one in tens of millions, that it was.</p><p>If he stole the prince away now, he could barter with Thingol. His grandson, for the Silmaril. Celegorm thought of the Sindarin king’s protective frenzy over his daughter, and hoped that those sentiments extended to Lúthien’s son.</p><p>He weighed his options. He was armed, with his hunting knives and his sword and his bow and arrows, and his horse was not far away either. The prince, meanwhile, looked completely defenseless, so young and so unsuspecting – but that was precisely what made Celegorm hesitate.</p><p>The son of Lúthien, more did not need to be said about her. The son of Beren, and as much as Celegorm despised the wretch, he knew how skilled he was, how strong. (Curvo had borne the bruises on his neck for nigh on three moons, as proof.) The grandson of Elu Thingol, a king every bit as ancient as King Ingwë or King Olwë or Celegorm’s own grandfather.</p><p>And as if that were not dramatic enough, Dior Eluchíl must be the grandson of a Maia as well. Celegorm had seen the terrible light in Lúthien’s eyes, despite her being unarmed against himself and his brother, two warriors bearing the weight of experience and death; he had no idea what exactly it was, what exactly she had been doing when she looked at him in such a way, but he knew in that instant that it was far beyond the power of any Eldar.</p><p>He could not be sure that that power had not passed from mother to son. Why else would Dior Eluchíl wander out of the Girdle of Melian, alone and lacking even weapons?</p><p>Still… this opportunity was so ripe, so <em>golden…</em></p><p>He refocused on Dior and was only able to internally curse after the three seconds it took for him to stir out of the stupor that the peredhel’s beauty cast over him once again. <em>For the love of… </em></p><p>Well, he had perhaps never been famed for a fiery temper like Atar or Carnistir, but Celegorm knew enough about himself to acknowledge that he had never been the most patient character, regardless of how Amal had strived to imbibe the quality into him. <em>Nerdanel the Wise. </em></p><p>(It stung that it was only here, far more than just thousands upon thousands of miles between himself and Valinórë, that he fully understood just how fitting that title was.)</p><p>Absentmindedly thumbing the golden <a href="https://s3.weddbook.com/t4/2/4/0/2409972/simple-gold-wedding-band-14k-rose-gold-ring-unisex-ring-rose-gold-wedding-ring-rose-gold-wedding-band-men39s-wedding-band-mens-ring.jpg">band</a> that he wore on his middle finger, he instinctively began to map out his movements; how he would approach the prince without being seen, crouch behind that rock over there and blend into that bush over there, how he would knock him unconscious, pommel of his sword clashing forcefully with the back of that impeccably-shaped skull, how he would sling Dior over his shoulder and make haste back to his horse, so he could hurry back to Amon Ereb. There, he and his brothers could plan out their next move with regards to Thingol.</p><p>(He knew that it was not exactly likely that he would be able to make it all the way back, with the distance in between crawling with all manner of filth. Still, he braved it all to hunt – food had been running perilously low back at Amon Ereb, with most life in the surrounding area seeming to have died out in the winter – and he would do it again if he needed to.)</p><p>But before he could take so much as a step, a towering figure emerged from the line of trees opposite from Celegorm, somehow impeccably graceful in floor-length silver and blue robes even among the snow and ice and underbrush. Celegorm had never met him before, but he looked similar enough to King Olwë that it was quite obvious who he was.</p><p>His throat tightened with hate. <em>Thingol. </em></p><p>The Sindarin king moved across the forest floor like some phantom, as poised as if he was practically gliding without touching it. Celegorm inhaled deeply, careful to be as slow and soundless as possible. He had no doubt that if he let himself relax for even a moment, the king would notice that he was there, not a hundred meters away from his grandson.</p><p>Dior Eluchíl had stood up, the cardinal still nestled contentedly in his hand. “Grandfather!”</p><p>Celegorm blinked. He cursed himself again (and again, was only able to do so after a few seconds.) Because, as if Dior was not ridiculously beautiful enough, his voice was every bit as impactful. It was sweet and resonating and <em>melodic</em>, chiming like bells in a gentle breeze, and Celegorm caught himself wondering how that voice would sound if it sang. He shook himself out of it.</p><p>This certainly threw a wrench in his plan of kidnapping. He had been prepared to take on whatever mysterious abilities that Dior Eluchíl’s Maian blood had bequeathed upon him, because despite it all the peredhel was still a child, could not be older than his twenties.</p><p>Thingol, however, was a separate matter entirely. Celegorm was no Morgoth Bauglir; he had little chance of besting a king so ancient, if any at all – and Thingol was not someone who would be merciful, especially upon discovering a Fëanorian so near his wife’s protective barrier. And, to top it all off, a Fëanorian trying to whisk away his grandson? It would be no surprise if Thingol sent his head flying from his neck, by his hand or by another’s, and impulsive though he might be, Celegorm had no wish to die just yet.</p><p>It grated on his soul like nothing had ever before – the thought that he <em>must </em>give up a chance like this, which surely would never come again.</p><p>“Dior, child.” Thingol’s voice was warm, even though the hint of exasperation rang out clear. “Have we not told you to keep from straying outside the Girdle of Melian?”</p><p>“I’m sorry, Grandfather,” the peredhel murmured, though to Celegorm’s ears he did not sound very ashamed. “I just… I don’t know. I felt as if I should come here. I don’t know the reason why.” As he shifted, raising his hand to let the cardinal flutter away into the air, Celegorm noticed a single <a href="https://cdn.shopify.com/s/files/1/1427/9894/products/10794268256_IMG_7924_1024x.jpg?v=1597689370">earring</a> dangling from the prince’s left ear. It was a light blue gemstone carved to the shape of a small butterfly, framed in pale gold and glinting in the light of the sun that filtered between the trees.</p><p>For the only prince of Doriath, in Celegorm’s opinion the piece of jewelry was rather plain. He found himself wondering if Dior had had it made himself, or if one of his many family members had given it to him. He then promptly found himself wondering, also, why he bothered to wonder about it in the first place.</p><p>Thingol sighed. “You are as flighty as Lúthien was when she was your age, winicë.”</p><p>The peredhel’s entire face seemed to glow with the simple curving up of his lips. “You still love her very dearly, do you not?”</p><p>“How very clever,” Thingol deadpanned, but there was unabashed fondness as he spoke. It seemed, Celegorm thought bitterly, venom closing his throat tight so he had trouble breathing, that despite his adamant objections against his daughter binding herself to a human, Thingol was very much attached to the product of their union.</p><p><em>And did you not think of how other grandparents would weep at their grandchildren’s deaths, when you refused us your aid after the Dagor Bragollach? Against Morgoth? </em>Sometimes he could still hear it echoing in his dreams, or even flitting through his ears when he could swear he was wide awake and standing on two feet: moans of aching despair, cries of heartrending agony. And he thought about how so many of them could have been prevented – so many people <em>protected </em>– if only Thingol had given them permission through—</p><p>Celegorm realized he was clenching his fist, his muscles coiling up like a snake’s. He forced himself to relax, sucking in a breath between his teeth while trying to remain as quiet and still as possible. Getting riled up would only be to his detriment.</p><p>“Come, winicë,” the king of Doriath bade, and despite himself, Celegorm’s heart seethed and spat at the thought of Dior Eluchíl slipping back into the confines of the Girdle, and he would have to live with the knowledge that he had seen <em>such </em>a golden opportunity to reclaim a Silmaril and had <em>squandered it. </em>But he forced himself to stay still as Thingol and Dior turned away from the glade and slipped back towards Doriath – back to protection.</p><p>But Dior paused. Glanced back. And although Celegorm knew that there was no possibility that the prince had seen him, he still could not help the strange feeling that they had locked gazes.</p><p>And Dior’s eyes were enchanting; full of light, sublime, pure in the sense that fire was pure. He could not have been looking at anything more than trees and snow and bare branches, but oddly, Celegorm wondered what it was that the prince was seeing. Because it certainly did not look as if he was staring at things so mundane.</p><p>Celegorm did not move until Dior had followed his grandfather back through the trees, out of earshot and presumably back through the Girdle. Only then did he stand, staring after the spot that the peredhel had slipped from his sight. He could not shake the strange uneasiness that had suddenly come over him as Dior looked in his direction. And yet, if the prince had seen him or noticed him in any way, why not alert his grandfather?</p><p>It must have simply been the light of the stars in Dior Eluchíl’s eyes, he decided, that had agitated him.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p><em>winicë</em> - little one (S)<br/>===</p><p>Dior is basically a Disney princess, no?</p><p>Let me emphasize once again that this fic was inspired by this <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/21793828/chapters/52004212">lovely work</a>! It is almost wholly responsible for both getting me into the Celegorm/Dior pairing and for endearing the idea of this story's premise to me.</p><p>So, time to come clean and say I have only a vague idea of where I'm going to take the plot. However, I find this pair insanely fascinating, so I couldn't resist posting the first part even though I have nothing but the faintest outline/plan.</p><p>Thanks for reading! </p><p>If you want to continue to follow the story, please keep in mind that Celegorm and Dior will not be getting along at first! They <em>will</em> hate each other, get annoyed at each other, and argue fiercely at the very least. In addition, since Celegorm is kidnapping Dior, the power imbalance of that may be uncomfortable to some people.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Act I</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p><strong>Warnings:</strong> As promised, kidnapping! A very lovely start to a relationship.</p><p>***<br/><em>naneth =</em> mother (S)<br/><em>adar =</em> father (S)</p><p>***<br/><em>Gwaedal:</em> "wind foot" (S)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Dior was twenty-one years of age when he first saw Celegorm Fëanorion.</p><p>He was hardly in the position to find the Fëanorian attractive, but that was exactly what Celegorm had been, despite being flecked with dirt, bits of dead leaf, and smelling of soil. It had only made Dior hate him more.</p><p>He had been riding north from Tol Galen, the destination being Doriath, to visit Grandmother and Grandfather. It was not often that he traveled alone, especially such a considerable distance, but he was twenty-one years old now, and nothing had ever beset him the many times he had traveled towards Doriath when Mother or Father or both were at his side. What should be the difference now?</p><p>And one day, perhaps one day soon, he would have to make the journeys alone. Better to just accustom himself to it early on.</p><p>Mother and Father had both expressed that they were against it, asking that he at least take guards. Dior had refused. <em>“I’m prince of Doriath,” </em>he had argued. <em>“I need to learn to look out for myself, Naneth, Adar.” </em>Then, knowing that they were only worried about him, he had smiled as reassuringly as he could. <em>“I will be fine. Both of you have taught me more than enough for that.” </em></p><p>In retrospect, perhaps Dior should have known that it would not sway his parents. It never had before, so why would it now?</p><p>But Dior had been frustrated. He wanted to go alone. He <em>never </em>traveled alone, not so far, anyway. He was grown now – twenty-one years old! – he could do it. He could prove to them, and himself, that he was more than self-sufficient for this brief amount of time.</p><p>And so, in the earliest hours of the morning, when Mother and Father were not yet awake, he had slipped from his bed and put on his white tunic and trousers. He’d taken his bow and arrows, his sword, and mounted his stallion, Gwaedal, setting off for Doriath. For the first several hours or so, it was nothing if not pleasant, encased in the gentle songs of birds and the lush hum of the late summer air, and Dior, a little nervous (though he would never admit it), had relaxed.</p><p>He had barely made it over River Duilwen, heading towards River Brilthor at a steady trot, when he suddenly, instinctively, straightened in his saddle, the skin of his nape prickling and foreboding crawling down his body.</p><p>Gwaedal sensed Dior’s uneasiness. He whickered, tail swishing from side-to-side nervously. Inhaling deep through his nose to calm himself down – the summer breeze no longer felt as relaxing – Dior patted the stallion’s neck, murmuring a few soothing words in Sindarin. If Gwaedal was spooked, then the journey would be more difficult until he calmed down.</p><p>Then a branch snapped somewhere to his left. Dior flinched, his gaze snapping in the direction of the noise, eyes seeking desperately for its source, so he could ascertain whether it was harmful or innocuous.</p><p><em>Harmful, </em>something screamed at him. <em>Harmful, it’s harmful. </em></p><p>But he could make out nothing, save for the expected green and brown and black throng of leaves, branches, and trunks, stretching on as far as he could see. Shadows danced among them, flickering like flame as Gwaedal continued forward, but that was nothing unusual, simply created by the forest canopy’s blockage of the summer sun.</p><p>He told himself it was just his nerves. Just a deer, or a squirrel.</p><p>Perhaps Mother and Father were right…</p><p>Dior pushed the thought away, refusing to let it linger in his mind. He was one-and-twenty years old, for Ilúvatar’s sake. What was he to do if he could not make a simple trip on horseback without being scared into submission by his own imagination?</p><p>(And it <em>was </em>his imagination, he told himself. Nothing more. But he still glanced down to make sure that his sword was strapped securely to his belt, his bow and quiver of arrows slung reassuringly over his shoulder, so he could reach for them and shoot any time he wanted. Mother had taught him how to steer a horse with only his feet, even at full gallop.)</p><p>Shifting on Gwaedal’s back, Dior readjusted his feet in the stirrups and loosened his fingers from their clenched grip around the reins. Took a deep breath.</p><p>He resumed his focus on steering Gwaedal carefully over the logs, roots, and stones littering the forest path, his pulse gradually slowing as he heard nothing more except for the chirping of the birds and the rustle of the wind against the leaves.</p><p><em>Truly, </em>Dior thought to himself in irritation, <em>I am too skittish. </em>Maybe this was why he <em>had </em>to have made this journey himself. He had not realized yet how unused to traveling alone he was, how tense it could make him; weakness that he would have to brush out, starting now.</p><p>
  <em>Maybe when I make it to Grandmother and Grandfather, I—</em>
</p><p>The sound of hooves clobbering against the hard-packed dirt. Too hard, too fast, to full of <em>intent </em>to be Gwaedal, who was steadily trotting.</p><p>Fear crashing over him like a tidal wave, Dior did not even bother to look back. His calves and heels clenched around Gwaedal’s side, and the stallion was tearing forward – Dior barely managed to flatten himself against the wind and avoid being swept clean off by the force of the acceleration. He clung tight enough that he was afraid the muscles of his legs were going to cramp, his face so stiff and tense with horror that he could not even bring himself to blink. His gaze was fixated wildly in front of him, in theory on the chance that he needed to direct the horse to leap or run around – but in truth, his mind was totally blank.  </p><p>And, chilled straight through his skin and all the way down to the bone, he could hear another set of hooves, separate from Gwaedal’s, making furious contact with the forest floor behind him. Blood roared in Dior’s ears, but somehow, that sound never seemed to be drowned out, and in a few seconds’ time it was practically all that he could hear. He could not even make out the thunder of his own horse’s galloping.</p><p>He rode and rode, frantic, brambles and thorns and branches ripping at his clothes, tearing at his hair and leaving shallow cuts down his face, but the sound of his pursuer became no fainter. It was still a long way until Doriath, a long way until he would enter even the outskirts where his grandfather’s guard patrolled; there was absolutely no chance that Gwaedal could continue at this full gallop. Eventually, the horse would stop from exhaustion, and the pursuer would have him.</p><p><em>What do I do? What do I do? Oh Eru, what do I </em>do?<em> Valar, help me—</em></p><p>And just <em>who</em> was this pursuer anyway? Why chase Dior? Was it them who had caused that tingling sensation earlier, and the snapping of the branch in the distance? If so, why stalk instead of outright chasing him from the very first?</p><p>What did they <em>want?</em></p><p>Dior’s eyes stung and watered. Vaguely, he wondered if he was crying from fear, or if it was simply the unforgiving pressure of the wind against them that was producing the tears.</p><p>He would not have noticed the large, decaying tree branch sprawled across their path had not Gwaedal jumped it himself, snapping Dior out of his terror-induced haze. His upper and lower rows of teeth clattered painfully against each other as Gwaedal’s hooves pounded against the ground from the force of the leap, and he blinked. Tried to gather himself. Tried to keep his mind clear.</p><p>He wanted to look back, to see just what it was that was pursuing him – and it <em>was </em>still coming – but he didn’t dare. He was too afraid of what he might see, too afraid of what he might do under the panic. He could not even keep his head on his shoulders while being chased, so how much better would he fare if he knew the face of the <em>thing </em>that was chasing him?</p><p><em>An orc? </em>He thought, against his will. The image of those twisted, gnarled faces oozing with pus and blood, baring their jagged, blackening teeth, sapped so much strength from his limbs, made him shudder so violently, that it was a wonder that he managed to stay on Gwaedal’s back at all.</p><p><em>What do I do? </em>He wondered for the second time, desperately and uselessly and helplessly. <em>What </em>can <em>I do?</em></p><p>And what <em>could</em> he do but just continue at full gallop, knowing Gwaedal would tire in due time? Knowing the pursuer would have what they wanted if they were only a little patient?</p><p><em>No – no, no, no, no, no! </em><em>Dior, focus! </em>What was he thinking? Or rather – <em>why</em> was he <em>not</em> thinking? He had to try to lose them in the trees!</p><p>If he could have afforded to slap his own face while staying on Gwaedal’s back, Dior would have done so. But he couldn’t, so he contented himself with clenching his jaw painfully, and steered the stallion to the right, where trees trunks coalesced and leaves and branches tangled to become a confusing mess. Of course it was more dangerous to try to ride at high speed in such an area, but Dior did not have many options. He could yet still hear the unknown assailant’s hot pursuit on his trail.</p><p>A thick branch whipped by his head, perilously close, and Dior scarcely managed to flatten himself against Gwaedal in time and avoid what would have been a grievous injury. Before he could comprehend how close he had come to being knocked unconscious or worse, a thorn snagged his face, and he <em>felt</em> its rough point dig in greedily, tearing out a line of flesh and leaving blood trickling down his cheek in its wake. The slap of the wind against the cut only made it sting more.</p><p>Abrupt and precise, Gwaedal shifted direction to veer around a tree trunk. Dior was <em>flung</em>, the center of his gravity swerving to the left with such speed and force that he was almost no longer on top of the stallion, but <em>beside </em>him. In that moment, he braced himself for the crushing impact of the ground, bumpy with roots and stones, against his ribs and hips and shoulder, perhaps breaking a few bones and leaving behind throbbing, dark bruises. <em>I’m sorry, Mother, Father, </em>he thought, shame and misery overtaking his body until he almost no longer cared about the inevitable collision. <em>You were right, you were always right. I should have listened to you. </em>They must be awake by now, he realized. Awake, searching frantically for him, and here he was, about to go sprawling onto the forest floor and be killed by this mysterious pursuer.</p><p>
  <em>I’m such a fool. </em>
</p><p>And then, suddenly, he was atop Gwaedal again, his body fully supported by the horse’s back and his legs cinched tightly to keep himself in place.</p><p>Dior blinked. <em>I’m…</em></p><p>He heard it once again – the crashing of hooves behind him, horrifyingly distinct from those of Gwaedal’s. Hardly having gathered his wherewithal, Dior guided the stallion further to the right and deeper into the thicket with nearly absentminded uncertainty. If Gwaedal had been another horse, less in-tune with Dior’s commands, no matter how vague and unassertive, then he would have long since fallen off.</p><p>Then again, Dior would later think with bitterness, if Gwaedal had been another horse, then perhaps Gwaedal wouldn’t have had to <em>die.</em></p><p>Because the arrow that whizzed through the air, fired with astonishing skill and precision, missed Dior’s arm narrowly and sunk into the flesh of Gwaedal’s outstretched neck. Right through the artery.</p><p>The horse shrieked in something that was a chilling blend of both fear and pain, his legs scrabbling as they slipped sideways on the dirt and roots. Dior was thrown – feet wrenched brutally out from the stirrups, hands torn away from the reins – and he went flying through the air. He had only a split second to wonder, numbly, if he should consider it fortunate that he wasn’t crushed underneath Gwaedal.</p><p>He squeezed his eyes shut. <em>Mother, Father, I’m—</em></p><p>There was a dull thump, the sensation of <em>something,</em> of some kind of <em>pressure, </em>against the side of his skull, his back, and left shoulder. It felt as though it should have been pain, brutal and searing pain, if given a split second more to register in Dior’s mind – but it had no such opportunity.</p><p>Because Dior was already out cold.</p><p>~</p><p>Before he could open his eyes, Dior was aware that he felt hot and stuffy. His head was heavy, his mouth was terribly dry, like a wad of sand had been stuffed into it, and his skin felt too flushed to be normal, damp with perspiration as if he was running a particularly nasty fever.</p><p>Worse still, it was only a few seconds before he became aware that his entire body was throbbing with a fury, aches traveling all the way up his legs and hips and waist to his back and abdomen and shoulders. He could not move his arms.</p><p>Alarmed, Dior did the first thing that came to him, which, upon further inspection, seemed a rather thoughtless course of action – he tried to call for help. No sound came out; instead, there was only a horrible <em>push</em> against his chest, stomach, and throat, like something was blocking his larynx from proper functioning. And although he hadn’t done anything that could have warranted it, immobilized as he was, his body bounced lightly from where it was sprawled like a sack of rocks, as if he was on top of a horse.</p><p>
  <em>…Hold a minute. </em>
</p><p>He <em>was </em>on top of a horse. The steady, dull, clop-clop-clop that was gradually beginning to process inside his ears and mind was unmistakably that of a horse’s hooves against the forest floor, not to mention the up-and-down motion of his body with each step the animal took. And if that were not enough to confirm his suspicions, the soft whickering and the distinctive, heady smell that clung to the horse’s pelt was.</p><p>But Gwaedal was shot. Had to be dead, by now.</p><p>A rush of panic overtook his senses. Before he could think better of it, Dior attempted to spring to his feet, his muscles flexing with the effort of the sudden movement. His body very promptly refused to obey him, and the only reward he got for his recklessness was a faint, strange, and whispery sound close to his ear, something that almost resembled a snort. Dior flinched, more from surprise than uneasiness. <em>What—</em></p><p>Then there was a dull, blunt force against his temple, and after that he had no recollection.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>We're getting right into it - time to start this lovely romance :) </p><p>I have literally never ridden a horse in my life, nor have I been inside many forests, so please excuse any inaccuracies.</p><p>Dior was a little bit of a panicked mess in this chapter, not that I can blame him - one second, you're peacefully riding through the woods on your favorite horse, and the next, someone's coming after you. Also he's a typical young elf in wanting to defy his parents and insisting that he try to get to Doriath alone, which came back to bite him here. </p><p>Thank you for reading!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Act II</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p><strong>Warnings:</strong> A lot of unpleasant thoughts from Dior about Celegorm, and another gratuitous physical description. Also, Dior does not think highly of the Fëanorians at this point in time.</p><p>***<br/><em>Edhellen -</em> Elvish (S)<br/>+ "Sindarin" is the Quenya name for the language of the Sindar; the Sindar themselves likely called their language "Elvish"<br/><em>Fëanorion -</em> son of Fëanor (S)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Dior, like Mother and Father, and like Grandmother and Grandfather, was a morning person; seldom did he open his eyes to the chirping of birds, nor get out of his bed to greet his parents, without a skip in his step. Always, his heart was singing with eagerness, to experience what the day had to offer him.</p><p>This was one of those rare times when he woke up in an utterly foul mood.</p><p>He was more alert than the last time he had been conscious; his vision clearer, his head a small fraction lighter, even though his throat was just as dry and his body felt just as overheated and tender as before. Though the light was dim and everything was blurry, he was just able to discern under his face what seemed to be… stone?</p><p>It was frustratingly slow, the way he came to, swaths of consciousness unsteadily patching themselves together until he was able to gather some semblance of his wherewithal; the roughness of stone beneath his skin, the direction of gravity’s pull which made him realize he was laying on his side, the damp, cool air and earthy smell reminding him of the underground. His legs and arms felt were numb, would not move when he wanted them to, and when he struggled to peer down, he saw that they were firmly and intricately bound with thick rope. Although he did have boots on, the sleeves of his tunic were loose, so the chords were tied around the bare skin of his wrists. Already, Dior was becoming aware of the uncomfortable burn, and he did not want to picture what kind of marks the bindings would leave. His weapons, too, had been tampered with, no longer strapped to his body as they had been when he could last remember them.</p><p>The cuts that had been left on his face from his attempt to escape all stung bitterly. Dior could almost picture them in his mind’s eye, picture the way that branches and brambles had torn into his skin and imprinted in their wake biting, dripping lines. Queerly, his cheeks felt almost <em>cold, </em>to the point that they were numb. Could it be that infection had set in, damaging his nerves? How long had it been since he rode through the forest, since Gwaedal was shot?</p><p>The thought of his horse, hooves slipping in the mud, nostrils flared with agony and terror as the arrow buried itself into his artery, sent a sickening pang through Dior. Suddenly, he did not want to think about trying to escape his situation, or even trying to figure it out. He just wanted to curl into a ball and cry. Apologize to Gwaedal. Apologize to Mother, and to Father.</p><p><em>I’m the prince of Doriath, </em>he reminded himself, weakly and tremulously. <em>I’m the son of Beren and Lúthien. The grandson of Thingol and Melian. </em>With that hollow encouragement, he stitched himself back together, pushing down the growing urge to sob.</p><p>Available light was dim at best, but when Dior tentatively raised his head, he saw that he was inside a cave, its entrance roughly ten meters away from the spot he was laying sprawled. Outside, it looked like it was sometime around late midday. Behind him, he could feel something large and hard and cold scratching against his spine through the material of his tunic; probably the back of the cave, but Dior did not have the strength to turn his body and look.</p><p>If he did not feel so heavy and sluggish, he might have shouted at the sheer horror. So this was what his pursuer had had in mind – but for what reason might they want to kidnap him? If he could know who they were, perhaps he’d be able to deduce…</p><p>Dior would have thought it was a servant of Morgoth, but in that case would they not have simply killed him first? Or were they bringing him back to their master, to use as leverage against Doriath? The thought made him cold, so cold that he feared his fingers and toes would stop moving. He could not imagine it, did not even <em>want </em>to imagine it, what he might experience in the choking grasp of the Dark Lord… And what about his parents, his grandparents? If he was a hostage, would they acquiesce to Morgoth? Did he <em>want </em>them to do such a thing, even if it meant his freedom?</p><p>Would Morgoth let him go even if they did all he said to do?</p><p>Before Dior could ruminate – or panic over, more aptly – the matter any longer, the sharp pain that stabbed in his skull forced his mind to silence. He let out a quiet groan – even that simple, incoherent syllable grating and rasping from the dryness of his throat – and inadvertently, closed his eyes, pushing his face against the rough stone in a futile grasp for some form of comfort.</p><p>Instead, he was tossed a stark chill, ragged and searing against the muddled haze of his thoughts.</p><p>“Awake?”</p><p>Edhellen – or, as it was called in Quenya – Sindarin, a rough accent; a male voice that was harsh and deep, full and strong and <em>sharp, </em>if a voice could ever be called that. Dior’s eyes flew to the cave entrance. How had he not heard his captor approach? He must truly be in an ugly state, he realized, fear crawling up his throat like cold, slimy bile.</p><p>And when he took in the kidnapper’s appearance, he was sure that it would not be long before he could not hold himself back from heaving the contents of his breakfast back out and onto the cold stone.</p><p>His captor was <em>tall </em>(and although not as tall as Grandfather, the fact that Dior was even thinking of his grandfather as a point of comparison was astounding in itself)<em>. </em>Taller than Father, a head taller than Dior, probably, and even under the tattered black cloak, the rumpled brown tunic and trousers, all of it flecked with dirt and bits of plant and worn from hard living, Dior could make out a powerful frame, rippling with grace that was almost <em>feral. </em>Even with boots that looked to be made of hard leather, their footsteps hardly made a single sound against the stone.</p><p>Contrary to his expectations, the kidnapper was no orc – that much was plain, because the sharp chin that peeked out from underneath the loose hood was smooth skin, rather than the ravaged, cracked, and leathery hide that his parents and grandparents had always told him about, to teach him from wandering off too far when he was a child.</p><p>Dior was not sure whether to be relieved or even more terrified. If not a servant of Morgoth, who would go to the trouble of doing such a thing? Why?</p><p>
  <em>Why…</em>
</p><p>On the rock, he shifted, uncomfortably, awkwardly – and a series of thoughts struck him like successive bolts of lightning, one after the other, with such clarity and precision that he wanted to slap his palm against his cheek for not realizing sooner. Not an orc. The kidnapper must have a motive. Grandfather had <em>that</em> jewel – the voice was clearly male, could it be—</p><p>“Can’t you speak? You’re not mute.” Was it Dior’s imagination, or was there a sneer in that voice? Was it merely the effect of the odd intonation with which his captor spoke Sindarin?</p><p>“Well, no matter. You’ve been out for over a day. You—”</p><p>“Are you a son of Fëanor?” Dior blurted, and promptly regretted it. Not only was it <em>such </em>a stupid thing, to ask one’s captor a question so hastily, but he was still parched, and the inquiry came out sounding thin, frail, and cracked. Even so, he refused to let his chagrin at how pathetic he sounded show on his face, schooling his features into an expression that he hoped was unreadable.</p><p>His captor laughed – a harsh, throaty sound, more akin to a bark than a chuckle. “Being direct, aren’t you?”</p><p>Dior got the distinct sensation that it was not truly a question.</p><p>“That, or entirely lacking in caution. Perhaps both.”</p><p>Dior said not a word. Frankly, he was not sure if there was anything that he could come from his mouth that might help the situation at hand.</p><p>His kidnapper pulled down the hood from over his head, roughly as if the material clinging to his body was irksome in every way possible. Dior found that he was caught staring, his impulses pulled apart by equal pieces revulsion and fascination as the worn fabric fell away. The face underneath was not what he had expected it to be, although couldn’t even say what he had been expecting at all.</p><p>For all his loathsomeness, Celegorm of the silver hair was startlingly handsome. (Perhaps, it also was not for false reasons that they called him Celegorm the Fair.) Later, Dior would flush embarrassedly, betting that Mother never would have thought such outrageous thoughts in a situation like this – but for the moment, his mind was quieted. The copper slopes of the face that was angled down towards him were sharp, the cheekbones distinct and elegant, tapering downwards into a chiseled jaw and a slim chin. Celegorm’s nose was sculpted and small, straight and firm, and his lips were sleek, not <em>quite</em> full but well-proportioned with the rest of his face.</p><p>The eyes… they were large, slanted upwards a little, and a shade that was not dissimilar to Dior and Mother’s own white-silver that Father often compared to the moon and stars. But unlike theirs, Celegorm’s eyes were flushed with hints of pale blue, a faint sheen that gave his entire stare an unnerving, glassy tinge. His eyebrows were straight, bold, and rather thick, arching evenly over his brow and managing to appear impossibly acute and whetted.</p><p>In fact, Dior thought, suppressing a shudder – <em>sharp, </em>that one word could describe Celegorm’s entire appearance, just as Mother had always told him. Serrated, cutting, honed, keen – whatever way it might be spun, he looked dangerous; Dior thought it fascinating in the same way that a polished blade of fine metal was fascinating. And right now, he could say only that it was downright <em>unnerving.</em></p><p>The silver hair, that shocking contrast with the tan skin, it only added to that effect. When Dior had listened to Mother’s stories, her vivid descriptions, about the two elves, the two Sons of Fëanor, that had kidnapped her and held her in Nargothrond, he had often wondered how <em>silver hair </em>could work. Grandfather’s hair was not so much silver as it was <em>white; </em>Dior had even asked Mother if the shade of Celegorm’s hair was like Grandfather’s, only for Mother to shake her head and draw the distinction with a faraway look in her eyes.</p><p>Dior had been puzzled – would silver hair not be grey? The color that began streaking through Father’s coal-black mane as Dior got older? The color of the elderly among Men? How could an elf have such hair?</p><p>He saw the answers to those childhood curiosities now, although in this case he really would have much preferred to live his entire life remaining puzzled over them. Celegorm’s hair was silver, yes, but it was a far cry from being grey – more like a blond so pale, so faint, so light and wispy, as to no longer qualify as <em>blond</em> and so, be called <em>silver</em> instead.</p><p>The long tresses, probably long enough to reach Celegorm’s lower back, were, as of present, pulled hastily back in a ponytail. Either from exertion or from simple messiness – Dior suspected the former – strands sat unkempt and awry about the kidnapper’s face, falling across his forehead, cascading over his ears, settling so their tips brushed nearly down to the clasp of the cloak. Despite being dirty and matted, clearly not having received a proper washing in a while, it still shone in the dim light streaming from the cave entrance.</p><p>Dior realized he was clenching his jaw, so heard that his teeth ached. Cringing on the inside at the new addition of the soreness in his body, he relaxed it, slowly, carefully, hoping Celegorm saw nothing.</p><p>“But you are correct. I am Celegorm Fëanorion,” his kidnapper said. It was an even tone, perhaps could be considered reasonable, yet he managed to sound smug. Faintly, sarcastically, Dior wondered if it had been necessary for Celegorm to so ostentatiously pull his hood down before voicing his identity loud and firm and clear. He might have been irked had fear not been freezing, smothering, any spark that might ignite into annoyance.</p><p>He inhaled deeply, as best as he could through the protest of his bruised ribs pressing against the hard stone.</p><p>“The Silmaril.” To his relief, his voice was soft and strained but didn’t sound quite so ragged, and he was cautiously proud of how steady he managed to keep his words, Grandfather’s advice to him on how to at least feign keeping a cool head coming back a little. At the back of his mind, he wondered if Mother had spoken to the Fëanorians with the same inflection.</p><p><em>No, </em>he thought, <em>Mother would have sounded firmer. She would never be cowed by the likes of this, by the likes of </em>him<em>. </em></p><p>But Dior wasn’t Mother, he wasn’t Father, he wasn’t Grandmother or Grandfather, and he was laying here at the mercy of a beast. This was the best he could manage. </p><p>“You’re holding me for ransom, yes?” he muttered, frantically pushing back against the tidal wave of horror that was beginning to roil inside of him, making it hard to breathe, hard to talk, hard to think.</p><p><em>Not now, </em>he told – pleaded to – himself. <em>Not now, Dior.</em></p><p>At the question, something flashed in those silver-blue eyes, something that Dior didn’t like. He wanted to crawl backwards, but there was nowhere to go backwards too, and his limbs were bound anyway. Unless he wanted to wriggle and worm, which he didn’t, he could not move.</p><p>“Yes,” Celegorm responded, simple and quick like they were discussing the pleasant, sun-bright sky of late summer. “Your grandfather – <em>King Thingol </em>– is quite obsessive over his beloved Lúthien.” It made Dior’s fingers twitch, to hear the son of Fëanor speak his mother’s name. Especially this son of Fëanor – one of the two who had kidnapped her, <em>the</em> one whom had intended to marry her by force.</p><p>“My wager is that he will be the same with you.” Celegorm smiled down at him, a savage light in his eyes.</p><p>Dior, dread and revulsion twisting inside of him, wished dearly that he hadn’t. What sort of <em>smile </em>was that, anyway? With the harsh slopes of his face, the slant of his eyes, the pulling back of his lips, that bearing of his teeth gave his captor’s entire visage a look of pronounced gauntness. In the dimness of the cave’s shadows, he seemed almost ghoulish.</p><p>And as if <em>this</em> were not bad enough, as if the fact that he was helpless in a Fëanorian’s presence was not bad enough, the situation was exactly, <em>exactly,</em> what he had feared it would be. It was all Dior could do to sink his teeth into the inside of his cheek, to prevent himself from shrieking out in indignation and terror. Of course, he had suspected this, but for Celegorm to truly confirm it in his own words…</p><p>Not only because he was here, alone and unprotected, but because he <em>knew </em>what consequences this would have. He could not say if the sons of Fëanor had been foolish – but if this truly was what they planned to do, the thought of the result almost made him feel more faint than his actual predicament.</p><p>“And then?” he croaked, barely managing to choose his words with care to mask the intent behind the questions. “Then I can go home?”</p><p>Celegorm looked him over, faint surprise lifting his defined brows a little. The wild glint in his eyes had subsided a little, but his gaze still steel. Nevertheless, Dior thought he had some idea of what his captor was thinking; it was a bit unusual, for him to be immediately thinking of the future, given the situation he was in.</p><p>But Celegorm did not know that Dior wasn’t thinking of only himself. Some part of him that wished he were. If only it could be that simple… if this were just a matter of <em>his</em> safety alone, and did not also mean possible war between Doriath and the Fëanorians, he would not feel so <em>panicked…</em></p><p>The son of Fëanor shrugged, an uncaring, short jerk of his shoulders that was somehow far more elegant than it had any right to be. Far more elegant than <em>he </em>had any right to be.</p><p>“If your family behaves.”  </p><p>Dior suppressed the affront that still, despite his fear, flashed through him at the way that Celegorm had worded that – as if his family, Mother and Father and Grandmother and Grandfather, was just a pack of hounds that could be trained to sit and roll over. He had to worry about the bigger consequences right now, and it seemed that it was indeed in Celegorm’s plans that he go home, if the Silmaril was returned.</p><p>
  <em>Then…</em>
</p><p>Dread spread through Dior’s body, icy and trumping even the uncomfortable humidity of the summer heat. Of course, he was relieved to hear that the sons of Fëanor did not plan to keep him as a hostage (though how much he trusted Celegorm’s words he was unsure of), so long as the Silmaril was given to them. Yet at the same time…</p><p>Grandfather wouldn’t simply let this go. Dior knew that. Grandfather was <em>never </em>one to forgive and forget, even when it came to matters that were less dire than this. If he knew that a Fëanorian, those whom he already had little love for, had taken Dior captive, Dior did not want to think about what he might do. He was sure that Grandfather would surrender the Silmaril for him, but it was an insult to his pride the likes of which he would never overlook.</p><p>Doriath was never unprepared for war, least of all against the Sons of Fëanor; his grandfather had made sure of that. Things could very easily escalate from here, and if they did – if they did…</p><p><em>I must get back home. I have to, I have to. I have to. </em>Before the Fëanorians had the opportunity to try any threat or coercion, he <em>had</em> to do something. At the very least, he had to convince Grandfather that war was not worth it, that he was alright and that he was safe now and there was no need to attack anyone to avenge his honor. But if it got to the point that Grandfather, proud and loving and zealous Grandfather, was forced to give up the Silmaril, Dior doubted that any power in Arda could have stayed his hand.</p><p>Yet he was not about to just <em>tell </em>his captor that. Dior did not know if Celegorm was anticipating war with Doriath for his actions right now, but if he was not, and Dior explained to him the perils to both the Iathrim and the Noldor who followed the sons of Fëanor, it was not impossible that he would lose his value as a hostage.</p><p>And in the hands of <em>this</em> Fëanorian, Dior was sure that that meant he was as good as dead. So then—</p><p>Another burst of pain robbed his train of thought blind, ripping through his skull like a knife shredding fabric. He flinched, lowering his head to the ground, features schooling in an expression of discomfort. Somewhere, hazily, at the back of his thoughts, Dior wanted to shout at himself for letting his guard down, letting an enemy see with their own eyes that he was hurt. But he couldn’t focus on that. Not when his head was throbbing and he couldn’t even reach up to clutch at it to alleviate the incessant pressure.</p><p>The fact that he could sense Celegorm’s gaze on him, that made the ache greater, somehow.</p><p>His captor made no attempt to help – perhaps if he had, Dior would have only felt worse – and did not say a word as Dior struggled through the bout of pain. He did not realize he had closed his eyes until they opened again to see Celegorm’s angular face and sleek features closer than they had been before. The son of Fëanor was on one knee, studying him with blank detachment. His eyes, Dior thought, dazed, they were cold, cold, <em>cold. </em>Even the summer heat could not prevent their chill from sinking into Dior’s skin.</p><p>It was all he could do to hold Celegorm’s gaze, but he managed it. Even as he could feel his breath catch in his throat and his pulse thunder all the way up in his temples, he stared right back at those frigid chips of silver-blue, hard as solid ice.</p><p>Celegorm looked amused. The mirth did not make him any warmer; in fact, Dior thought it was quite the opposite. Unconsciously, he sucked in air between his teeth when Celegorm reached to unhook something from his belt, concealed by the beaten black cloak, but when his captor drew his hand back Dior saw that there was only a waterskin in his hands. Awareness of the burning of his dry throat crashed through his stupor and back into his consciousness, all too abruptly for Dior to even think about reining in the grimace that broke out over his face.</p><p>He knew his gaze was burning feverishly as soon as he laid eyes on the waterskin, and he knew that Celegorm saw it too. The realization snagged at Dior’s pride, and he swallowed, trying to regain his composure, only to regret his actions as he felt the dehydrated muscles of his throat contracting awkwardly against each other. Frustration bubbled up inside him – <em>Can you not do anything right, Dior? Anything right at all, in a situation like this?</em></p><p>Mother wouldn’t have been half so foolish, an ugly voice whispered. He swallowed again.</p><p>“You’re thirsty. Drink.” Celegorm extended his hand, holding out the waterskin; offhandedly, Dior was aware that there was a gold band wrapped around his middle finger. He couldn’t care less; all of his consciousness had tunneled, coalescing into a point at the water – the <em>water </em>– within his reach. The waterskin was easily close enough that Dior could raise his head and reach it, to gulp down the clear, precious, revitalizing liquid that he could practically smell inside, to ease the burning in his throat and mouth – but he didn’t.</p><p>His sense of dignity – or perhaps it was just his ego – wouldn’t allow it, wouldn’t allow him to just meekly bend to this savage creature in front of him. And besides, what if it was poisoned? What if this was all some cruel joke, and Celegorm meant to toy with him before killing him? He would not put it past such a cutthroat.</p><p>And so, he merely stared at the waterskin, then at Celegorm, then back at the waterskin. Then back at Celegorm. Deciding the tantalizing offer of water was too excruciating to look at, and that cowering away was too shameful, Dior kept his eyes locked firmly with his captor’s, trying to still the tremble of his heart. <em>Mother and Father, </em>he reminded himself, <em>Mother and Father, they faced much worse. </em>He could to it, too…</p><p>
  <em>Truly, can you? </em>
</p><p><em>“Drink,”</em> Celegorm repeated, firmer this time, but in a tone that gave Dior the sense that he did not really care either way. He did his best not to shudder at the thought.</p><p>And, he didn’t say anything.</p><p>“It’s not poisoned, if that is your concern,” the Son of Fëanor said, arching his eyebrows ever so slightly as he looked down at Dior. Dior refused to move; Celegorm gave him a look, one that he could not quite place and certainly did not like, before taking a sip himself, tilting his head back and letting some water fall into his mouth. Dior thought he might cry from longing as he watched the clear liquid trickle, heard it slosh about inside the skin, so he tried to focus on something else – anything else, to distract himself. The pain of his shoulders and hips, his back and his ribs and his arms. The itching of his wrists, where the rope dug into skin.</p><p>The way Celegorm’s long throat bobbed as he drank.</p><p>Dior was not sure if he was focusing on <em>that</em>, of all things, out of morbid fascination or simple horror. Startled and uncomfortable at his own train of thought, he averted his gaze, staring hard instead at a loose stone by Celegorm’s foot.</p><p>The older elf finished his brief drink and looked expectantly back down at Dior again, but Dior refused to indicate how badly he wished he could have some water, too. He wasn’t about to ask for anything from Celegorm. He didn’t want to accept anything from a monster, a monster who had tried to steal his mother away, a monster who had declared he would do anything to supposedly reclaim his family’s jewels.</p><p>So, he just stared at Celegorm, and tried to keep his mind busy. Keep it off the water. Now that he understood the situation a little better, terrible, brutal reality had begun to sink in, crushing him and grinding his body into the ground with the weight of its immensity. He was being held. Captive, against his will, in the hands of one of the looming menaces in his childhood tales. Who knew… who knew what Celegorm intended to do to him? Who knew what manner of thoughts went through such a diseased mind?</p><p>And how did he plan to advance? Surely he was not going to keep Dior in this cave while negotiating for the Silmaril to be given to him – that would be foolish. No, Dior thought, forcing the logical connections through and above and around the painful pulsing in his body and his head, it was more likely that Celegorm was going to take him somewhere he could be secure. And that place…</p><p>“Suit yourself, then.” His captor’s nonchalant words pulled Dior’s attention back to him, and he refocused just in time to see Celegorm put the waterskin away. Dior clamped down on the overpowering urge to cry in horror as it disappeared from sight, and hoped that his desperation was not showing on his face. He could not shake the feeling that he had made a mistake by not drinking.</p><p>“Amon Ereb?” he asked – croaked – to distract himself. Celegorm did not reply, just looked at him in silence. Unnerved and disgusted at the very fact that a Fëanorian was staring at him, Dior clarified, “Are you going to take me there?”</p><p>“Yes.” The response was <em>barbed</em>, somehow. Everything seemed to be with Celegorm, and Dior wondered faintly if it was just a trait of his, or if he was doing it because Dior was his prisoner, his hostage.</p><p><em>Yes. </em>So that was where they were headed for – Amon Ereb, the stronghold of the Fëanorians after the losses that they and the Noldor suffered against Morgoth at the Nirnaeth Arnoediad. The Sons of Fëanor – all there, the six that remained, together, and Celegorm was going to take him there. He was going to be alone, alone and unprotected in a pit full of unscrupulous and merciless vipers. Dior had grown hearing the tales of the Flight of the Noldor, had heard from Grandfather about how the Sons of Fëanor had turned on their own kin in Alqualondë, all because the Teleri refused to give them use of the swan ships. And no matter the good that the Fëanorians had done against Morgoth, in the end they were easily willing to kill to get what they wanted.</p><p><em>I have to get home. I want to go home. </em>He knew Grandfather. This was going to mean war, and Dior – Dior was scared. The thought of what the near future held, the thought of being held by the Sons of Fëanor, with all their ruthlessness and violence and determination, it scared him so badly that he could hardly even feel anything.</p><p>He wanted to struggle, but Celegorm was watching him, and Dior didn’t know what he might do.</p><p>“Don’t worry.” The words were, in theory, comforting, but the tone was anything but. Glancing up at his captor, Dior was sure that this time, he wasn’t imagining things; there was a flicker of a sneer on Celegorm’s face. “So long as your noble grandfather does as we ask, you’ll be home soon.”</p><p>Unable to stand firm against the mocking in that gaze, Dior averted his eyes, back to the stone he had been staring at. He didn’t dare to look up again for some time afterwards, but when he did, his throat felt drier than ever, and Celegorm was sitting near the cave’s entrance, stark and silhouetted and as dark as a shadow against the light streaming in.</p><p>Dior shivered. He wasn’t sure whether it was from fear, or because his body was simply unable to take the sheer force of the hatred that swamped him as he stared at Celegorm.</p><p><em>Fiend, </em>he thought apprehensively, furiously, clenching his fists against the tightness of the ropes until he felt the skin of his palms threatening to burst under the pressure of the fingernails.<em> Just you wait. Somehow, somehow, I </em>will<em> get out of this. And I’ll spit in your face when I do.</em></p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Celegorm's a prick in this one - don't worry though, I plan to make it worse.</p><p>Dior might be far from fond of the Fëanorians, but he <em>really</em> does not like this particular one, considering Celegorm's history with his parents. He's also scared, so he's really trying harder not to let the frightening thoughts get to him too much, which manifests as defiant anger. There'll probably be a lot of poor Dior oscillating between frustration/annoyance/hatred and wariness/fear/horror/panic, at least in the earlier chapters. He also tends to compare himself to his family a lot, when he's feeling insecure and when he needs comfort, so expect frequent mentions of Beren/Lúthien/Thingol/Melian and the things that they've accomplished. Also expect him to be calling Celegorm some unflattering names, in his head if nothing else.</p><p>Thank you for reading! Comments are appreciated :3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Act III</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p><strong>Warnings:</strong> Callbacks to Celegorm's numerous traumatic experiences. </p><p>****<br/>Tyelpë = Telperinquar - Celebrimbor's father-name (Q)<br/>Curvo = Curufinwë - Curufin's father-name (Q)<br/>Atarinkë - Curufin's mother-name (Q)<br/>Káno = Kanafinwë - Maglor's father-name (Q)<br/>Makalaurë - Maglor's mother-name (Q)<br/>Maitimo - Maedhros' mother-name (Q)<br/>Nelyo = Nelyafinwë - Maedhros' father-name (Q)<br/>Nolofinwë - Fingolfin's father-name (Q)<br/>Morikotto - Morgoth (Q)<br/>Findaráto - Finrod's father-name (Q)<br/>Carnistir - Caranthir's mother-name (Q)<br/>Moryo = Morifinwë - Caranthir's father-name (Q)<br/>Telvo = Telufinwë - Amras' father-name (Q)<br/>Pityo = Pityafinwë - Amrod's father-name (Q)<br/>Írissë - Aredhel (Q)<br/>Tyelkormo - Celegorm's mother-name (Q)</p><p>***<br/>Endórë - Middle-Earth (Q)<br/>Valinórë - Valinor (Q)<br/>Angamando - Angband (Q)<br/>Lhúnorodrim - Blue Mountains (Q)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Dior Eluchíl irritated Celegorm.</p><p>It was no fault of his, of course. How old was the prince of Doriath? Twenty years old? Twenty-one? He could not be more than twenty-four, if Celegorm’s memory served. There was nothing that such a fledgling, green behind the ears, wide-eyed, soft-faced, could have done actively to garner his ire.</p><p>But he saw it for himself, that youthful vigor and that naïve obstinacy, reflected in Dior’s silver eyes as he stared at Celegorm from his position on the stone floor, refusing to drink what Celegorm had gone to the trouble of fetching <em>just</em> for him even though they both knew that he must be quite parched. It had been amusing, like a kitten trying to roar at him, but it had also made Celegorm quite a bit angry.</p><p>His hostage, he realized, sensed now more than ever, was a sheltered little mouse, or a delicate butterfly unaware of the sticky webs brushing precariously close to its wings. Tucked away behind the veil of security, safe and sound inside the lull of his grandmother’s vastness. It was a reminder of what could have been for those who followed his father, followed him and his brothers now, had Dior’s grandfather not rebuffed their pleas for help, turned his eyes away from their desperation, their fear.</p><p>Tyelpë, Celegorm thought, perhaps could have been able to grow with a fraction of that same hopeful sweetness, if Thingol had not refused to extend his hand. Nemmírie, maybe the vehement light that had always gleamed in her eyes would not have dulled quite so much, if Thingol had only allowed them passage through his kingdom. And it stung furiously, the fact that Dior Eluchíl had had the privilege of experiencing what Curvo’s son, Káno’s daughter, his people’s own children, had not. Every time he looked at his hostage, he was reminded of that.</p><p>The burn scars that blanketed his upper body and snaked across his arms seemed to smart.</p><p>Not that Celegorm intended to let it show. Truthfully, what remained of the childish, petty bits of his pride had taken some offense, however miniscule, at the effect that Dior’s beauty had on him. The prince of Doriath seemed to have only gotten fairer since the last time that Celegorm saw him; if he had been a bud those two or so years ago, fragile petals spun together to conceal the extent of their charm from prying eyes, he was well on his way to becoming a magnolia unfurling triumphantly in full bloom now. Despite his wretched state, dehydrated and bruised and clearly frightened, dirt and scratches marring his face, every contour was perfection. His eyes glittered more brightly than ever, enchanting with their luminescent sheen, and that graceful arch of his nose had come to be exactly right, not too strong and not too weak. The messiness of his inky black hair, matted and tangled from the ride through the forest, only managed to accentuate his allure, and his clothes – the same kind of tunic and trousers that Celegorm remembered him wearing two years ago – ripped and stained as they were now, were practically luxurious when paired with those winsome features.</p><p>Dior Eluchíl’s loveliness was so striking that it still took a little getting used to, to Celegorm’s annoyance; earlier, when he had been applying medicinal salve to the cuts on his prisoner’s face, unwilling to allow them to become a problem later on, he had been continuously caught off guard by the beauty of the unconscious face beneath his fingers. No matter from what angle he was looking, Dior glowed.</p><p>It was a bit amusing. One would think he was more resilient against such insipidity – there had never been any shortage of comeliness where he went, not in Aman and not among the Noldor and among his brothers – but apparently that was not the case.</p><p>And even Dior Eluchíl’s voice – as his throat was dry from lack of water, his body battered and bruised and his tones cracked and bleary with spite and fear darkening his spirit – still, his voice was just as breathtaking as when Celegorm first heard it two years ago. A little bit smoother, a tad more sonorous, but the vibrancy and richness and the sheer <em>music </em>of it was all the same.</p><p>Celegorm supposed that this was the effect of having the blood of a minor deity in one’s veins. And perhaps, even if he had somehow not had the prior information that Dior Eluchíl’s grandmother was a Maia, Celegorm might have still guessed, just like he had with Dior’s mother, that the youth had some association with the Ainur. He had seen Oromë, after all, ridden with the Vala of the hunt through the forests of Aman, and basked in the immensity of one of the Ones, who had sung the world into its fledgling existence. Of all his brothers, he knew most what the brilliance of an Ainu was, how enormously separate it was from any of the Children. There had been a similar such luminosity in Lúthien, and indeed there was a similar such luminosity in her son, too, though it was not as blinding as his mother’s and remained a far cry from the inferno of light that Celegorm remembered Oromë to be.</p><p>But that, too, made sense. Family ties with an Ainu was not all that set the youth apart, were they? Beren Erchamion was his father; Dior was, at least partially, one of the Secondborn, and, at least partially, one of the Eldar. The idea of such a union, such an <em>amalgamation,</em> was ridiculous, something that Celegorm knew he and his brothers would have scoffed at and jested about. Yet here he was, with a being that was the result of such a union limply sprawled on the cave floor not ten meters behind him.</p><p>He could not deny that he was fascinated. He had met Men, he had met Ainur, and of course Eldar were all around him, but there was only one with the blood of all three races flowing through his veins. To think that there existed a being that seemed to be, in mind, an elf not so different from himself and his brothers, yet was borne also from the power of deities <em>and</em> the frailness of Men…</p><p>Celegorm was not old, but he was also not young anymore, and the number of things that were <em>new </em>to him had only dwindled rapidly from the moment of his birth. He could not remember feeling this intensely – almost <em>childishly</em> – curious since the early years in Endórë, confounded and struck dumb by all manner of phenomena that he could not even have imagined in Valinórë. Snow. Hail. Sleet. Decay. Even the first few times that he had witnessed the cycle of Arien and Tilion.</p><p>He glanced towards his captive, not caring if Dior noticed his blatant staring. The prince of Doriath did not. He was huddled against the wall, staring at his bound wrists with a pensive look darkening eyes of starlight. There was distinct discomfort on his face; no doubt a combination of the pain, the uneasiness, and his body’s demands that its thirst be rectified. But he had refused the opportunity once, out of that stupid innocent pride that all the defenses surrounding him had allowed to fester like poison in his veins.</p><p>Something in Celegorm’s chest stirred. He could not tell what it was, but it was faintly uncomfortable, wholly alien, and the tiniest bit familiar. He didn’t like it.</p><p>Dior looked up. Their gazes met.</p><p>The youth seemed to flinch a little, as if he had not been expecting Celegorm to be looking at him, but determination was already hardening in those silvery eyes. He matched Celegorm’s stare, returned it with his own, trying to appear cold and dignified but it was too easy for Celegorm to see that he was blazing.</p><p>Undaunted by staring matches – he always had been, had glared defiantly at his father more times than any of his brothers, and right now his opponent was a little child – Celegorm did not attempt to avert his eyes or diffuse the situation, either. In an odd way, he found himself curious to see how long such a tiny, vulnerable slip of a creature could keep up in directing that intense stare at him. </p><p>The result was a little surprising. There was something clearly dark in Dior’s eyes, and it sharpened as he met Celegorm’s gaze. Celegorm was sure he recognized it, a blend of sentiments that had been directed at him plenty of times before; fear for a monster under one’s bed, wariness towards an untoward beast, disgust at the vermin scuttling through the dark and the wet, loathing for a nemesis that had taken away too much that was too beloved – though Celegorm did not remember ever taking much of anything away from Dior Eluchíl until now. No doubt Beren and Lúthien and Thingol and Melian had filled Dior’s head with all kinds of tales about he and his brothers. How heartless they were, how monstrous and bloodthirsty.</p><p>Predictable.</p><p>Celegorm felt the beginnings of a sneer tugging at his features at the thought. Dior, despite that undeniably amusing bravado, was obviously already uneasy; seeing the mocking that rose on his own captor’s face must have done little to help him feel any better.</p><p>But by nature, Celegorm was not, and had never been, a sympathetic creature. He was not in the habit of restraining himself to make others more comfortable, and did not bother trying to mask his derision.</p><p>Even after moments passed, and the instinctive scornful curl of his lip had gradually smoothed out again, he didn’t look away, still curious to see the extent of Dior’s mettle.</p><p>The youth did break first, turning his gaze from Celegorm’s with burning reluctance. Like he wanted his resistance, his <em>disdain</em>, to be continuously known, like he was determined to <em>make</em> it continuously known, yet was, at the same time, afraid of looking too long.</p><p>Still, Celegorm could not help thinking that the prince of Doriath was not altogether uncommendable. Not every creature who had walked across the surface of Arda could say that they had calmed themselves enough, upon realizing they had been kidnapped, to reason out where the captor planned to take them, or what the captor’s motive was. And Dior’s actions earlier, too, communicated enough; he had wanted to make his feelings, his spite for Celegorm, known. There was a kind of pride in the fact that he had those feelings, but at the same time, there was fear of what Celegorm would do in reaction.</p><p>Celegorm did understand that, contradiction though it was. Perhaps it might not be vitriol on the same level (although it had certainly seemed like it at the time), but he had often glared at his own father that way. (Never on Mother, though. Her way of scolding, firm, steely, cool, and patient, it had never made his ire blaze like it inexplicably always did when Father was trying to lecture him.)</p><p><em>Father. </em>Celegorm’s mouth twisted into a wry shape at the thought. A reminder that the very wide-eyed idealism he found akin to a kitten’s roar in Dior Eluchíl had once been so much a part of him, as well. He didn’t think the last bits of it were truly scraped away, from him or from any of his brothers, until many years after they arrived in the east, persisting even when they watched their father’s hröa burn to ashes in the blaze of his soul. Even when Maitimo was carried, hissing and spitting and snarling and cursing, away into the depths of Angamando, and none of them believed that he could have survived.</p><p>Celegorm could not speak for his brothers, and he <em>certainly</em> was not sure when exactly it was, that he had shed that romanticism for the final time. Maybe when the limp and pallid and withered near-corpse with a head of matted, filthy russet hair that absolutely could <em>not</em> be his oldest brother had woken from his sleep – returned to them after three decades of imprisonment – screaming and begging and groveling, tears streaming from his eyes and spittle gathering around his lips, clutching at Celegorm’s hands and hair and face as the pleas to <em>kill me kill me kill me kill me just kill me </em>bubbled forth from his scarred, bloody mouth?</p><p>The Dagor Bragollach, perhaps? The moment the news of Nolofinwë had reached his ears, that his uncle had gone charging into Morikotto’s fortress, his body broken and bloody and misshapen against the Dark Lord’s foot? Maybe when it had sounded all over Nargothrond that Findaráto was dead, that Lúthien had stormed the Isle of the Werewolves and faced Sauron, that a lone maiden had done what the Sons of Fëanor with their arms, their armies, dared not, and the only thing that Celegorm had understood was that Findaráto was dead, that <em>his cousin was dead,</em> that he had sent him to his death and <em>he hadn’t really thought, hadn’t meant for things to—</em></p><p>Or maybe the illusion of hope lifted from his eyes forever amongst the grief-torn moans, the despairing cries, of his people after the Nirnaeth Arnoediad, as they fled the ruins of their land, friends and family and children and parents dropping dead from exhaustion and blood loss, hunger and pain, all around them.</p><p>Celegorm exhaled, light and quiet as he regarded his captive. Perhaps bitterness at the lot that his people had been tossed and forced to accept helplessly, it was not the only reason he found himself so vexed by Dior Eluchíl and his flighty innocence.</p><p>He furrowed his brows and pushed the memory of flame against his skin away. Now, he chastised himself, was not the time to be getting sentimental.</p><p>Although his plan was so far going as desired, his predictions accurate and the chase even easier than he had expected it to be, because Dior had been alone – he could not let his guard down; his position was still precarious. This was still Ossiriand, Celegorm having lugged Dior over the Brilthor in the time that the youth had been unconscious, and as of this moment, the two of them were on the outskirts of the Lhúnorodrim for the shelter of a cave that the border of the mountain range provided.</p><p>It was important that he make haste. Since, strangely, there had been no one else with Dior to witness his capture, Beren and Lúthien would likely think that he was still on his way to Doriath. During those few days, he had to take his new companion out of the region and towards Amon Ereb. It was the swiftest and surest way.</p><p>His new companion who did not seem too keen to cooperate, if his foolhardy unwillingness to drink the water offered to him was any indication. Celegorm would really prefer that he made things simple, like most <em>hostages </em>would, and did as he was told – the journey would be easier, and safer, for both of them, that way – but just one look at the flame, the obstinacy that was both ridiculous and oddly impressive, in Dior Eluchíl’s eyes, and he doubted that that would happen. Not without some further push, anyway. </p><p>Well. If necessary, he could give that further push. For the sheer practicality of it, however, he would rather he did not have to resort to such methods. He could either keep Dior fairly well-fed and healthy (though thoroughly restrained), so he did not slow their travels too much or force Celegorm to waste precious time and effort trying to keep him from dying. Or, he could make sure that, in all capacities, his captive was utterly unable to escape, so would be just like another object – Celegorm was confident that he could handle one more sack of supplies. </p><p>The first option, though, was not going to <em>be</em> an option if Dior was uncooperative, including refusals to eat or drink when Celegorm offered him the chance. And right now, well… that was exactly what he was doing.</p><p>But impatient though he might be, Celegorm was not unreasonable. Not all the time, anyway. Naturally he would give Dior another opportunity; he could not exactly jump to fault or punish his captive for being initially reluctant to accept things from his captor.</p><p>They could not afford to tarry long, though. Dior would have to swallow his pride, and swallow it soon.</p><p><em>Kidnapping, </em>Celegorm thought, dryly, <em>is simpler when your captive comes to your land on their own two feet. </em>When he and Curvo had taken Lúthien to Nargothrond, she had come of her volition to Talath Dirnen chasing after her little mortal lover, and he certainly had not had to worry about the routes they would take to get her where they wanted her to be, nor had he had to concern himself with the precariousness of having to pass through an area which would no doubt soon be heavy with searchers. Not that he had not come prepared this time, but though the effort was more than necessary, it was also annoying.</p><p><em>“You live and you experience, yonya, no matter how old you get,” </em>he remembered Atar saying when Celegorm was young, in one of his brighter moods, the kind that had seldom come over him again after Morikotto was released into Valinórë. Celegorm’s tangling with Lúthien Tinúviel, and now her son, it seemed, proved his father’s words true.</p><p>Many things, in fact, proved his father’s words true, although Celegorm was quite certain that Atar hadn’t meant it exactly like that. He could not have imagined that his sons would have left Aman behind, seen their father reduced to cinders, their kin dead all around them, and found themselves crowded like livestock into Amon Ereb, hissing and growling at each other as they felt their actions gradually beginning to clamp down around them.</p><p>His brothers – Celegorm had not seen them in some time. He had left Amon Ereb a little less than a year ago, brushing off their questions, especially from Maitimo and Makalaurë, about where he was going. The idea to kidnap Dior, trade him for the Silmaril, had always remained, tickling at the back of his mind ever since he that time when he was hunting near Doriath and accidentally came across its prince, dancing in the woods. He just had not acted on it for some time.</p><p>Maitimo and Makalaurë – Maitimo especially – would not be thrilled at his actions, that much he was already anticipating. These days, ever since the Nirnaeth Arnoediad, they had ever been the ones with discouragement whenever any one of them wanted to take action. For some time, Celegorm, like Carnistir and Atarinkë and Telvo, had acquiesced to their call for caution, although he and Curvo especially had chafed against it, argued with Maitimo and Makalaurë, trying to make them see that simply lying low and rotting away in Amon Ereb would do none of them any good. But their older brothers would not hear of it.</p><p>And neither had they been happy when Celegorm declared that he was leaving Amon Ereb for a while; doubtless that they were worried he had something in mind. But what were they going to do – sequester him away? Lock him in his room? Even in Aman he had scarcely listened to his older brothers, and now the days when they could forcibly keep him from doing something without all of them feeling like a merry gaggle of fools were long past.</p><p>Besides, it never had been, and never would be, a matter of <em>liking </em>the actions that they took in their pursuit of the Silmarils. It was high time that Maitimo and Makalaurë, and his other brothers, too, realized it. Frankly, Celegorm was slightly incredulous that some part of them seemed to <em>still</em> be in denial. The oath that they had sworn in Tirion, their swords raised, their voices carrying, their father’s eyes blazing, was, had always been a rotten thing. Even back then, as he spoke the words all those years ago, he had suspected that he and his brothers might be enabling a situation that was soon to spiral further out of their hands than they expected, though none of them could have possibly known the extent to which <em>that</em> would go.</p><p>Not that his misgivings had stayed his hand; in fact, he had been second only to Curvo in lifting the blade of his sword into the air, to join their father’s.</p><p>But still, he was aware. That if they truly were to make good on their word, if they truly were to reclaim what they had left Aman behind for, then clean hands were not an option. Their hands were already dirty, ever since Alqualondë, and would only get dirtier – Nelyo, Káno, and Telvo, and Curvo especially, seemed unwilling to accept that. Even Moryo, who generally had the fewest illusions about their oath, was rather opposed to outright calling it ugly as it was. His brothers had always been annoying.</p><p><em>“We have every right,” </em>Curvo would insist, over and over and over again, grating at Celegorm’s ears until he found himself battling with the urge to grab the fool by his collar and shake him into seeing sense.</p><p><em>“We do not want to do anything we might come to regret,” </em>Káno would state, manner deceptively cold, and Celegorm stood still, listened, uncharacteristically reluctant to tell his brother that even if they regretted what they did, that did not mean they were not still responsible for it.</p><p><em>“We must not be rash or impetuous,” </em>Nelyo would prattle, as if the idea of an unbreakable oath was not in itself foolishness and recklessness embodied.</p><p><em>“We just want to take what originally belonged to us back,” </em>Telvo would declare, his voice ringing with that clear conviction that always tore Celegorm between either embracing the youngest brother he had left or sitting him down and talking some clarity into him.</p><p>Sometimes, Celegorm wondered what Pityo would have thought. Other times, it was not until the evening, when he was preparing to retire, that he realized he had not thought of Pityafinwë all day. The mornings after those nights, his eyelids were heavy.</p><p>Yesterday had been one of those nights, and, just the same, today he was tired from the accumulating lack of sleep. Although his prolonged excursion outside of Amon Ereb was not altogether unlike the hunting trips he had frequented on back in Valinórë, in a few things it was very different; one of those things was the fact that it was just too perilous to risk sleeping soundly.</p><p>In the Woods of Oromë, there had ever been other Hunters always by his side; in the forests of Aman, it had often been either his brothers or his cousins, especially Írissë. Out here, he was alone by necessity, and it was far more dangerous in the east than it ever had been in Aman. All manner of animals had lurked in the trees of the southern parts of Valinórë, of course, and it had been prudent to be cautious of them, but there was nothing that was truly threatening unless one happened to just be extremely unlucky.</p><p>Not like now – if the Tyelkormo of the Years of the Trees, who had so loved to ride among the plains of Aman and plunge himself deep among its woods, had found himself in the forests of Endórë, Celegorm was sure his reaction would have been neither pleasant nor composed. The orcs and trolls that crawled through nearly all regions of the east were a far cry from the regal creatures that roamed Aman’s wilderness, and Celegorm and his brothers had learned the hard way that they could never let their guard down. Least of all when they attempted rest.</p><p>So, naturally, it was not a wise idea to let himself sleep deeply. And if the reward was avoiding being sprung up on by a group of orcs, then, well, Celegorm was willing to go without repose.</p><p><em>If only, </em>he thought in irritation, <em>I could also avoid my eyes stinging so Valar-damned much.</em></p><p>In an effort to distract his focus from the incessant itching sensation behind his eyelids, he took a moment to rummage through the sack of supplies that he kept by his side, stuffed with food and the tools that were appropriate for a trip such as this. Hand lingering over the waterskin, Celegorm shook it lightly, assessing the amount of liquid left. Since his captive had refused the offer of a drink, there was still a sizable quantity, but Celegorm resolved to refill the waterskin before they left Ossiriand. It should not take too great a time for them to reach Amon Ereb, but he was not keen to run out of water, if anything unforeseen happened.</p><p>And as for food, he had plenty more slices of lembas, some strips of dried meat, and he could hunt again. There was a plethora of animals roaming in the late summer, and it would not be until early to mid-autumn that they began to withdraw into hibernation, or move away to seek warmer areas. Ruina’s feed, too, was plentiful. For now, things were fairly secure; if he only made proper haste and kept on the low, they would be at Amon Ereb in due time as he intended.</p><p>The variable that he could not reliably predict was Dior.</p><p>With the way the prince of Doriath looked at him, Celegorm wouldn’t be surprised if Dior fought him every step of the way. Which was not going to be something that was acceptable, lest they both run a higher risk of dying, but he doubted that the youth would be willing to take his word for it.</p><p>The thought of having to wrangle with an obstinate fledgling the entire way to Amon Ereb made Celegorm sneer, flicking a hand through the tangles of his hair to distract himself from the headache that threatened to burst behind his eyelids. As if sensing his annoyance, Ruina, from where he was tied just outside of the cave entrance, whickered softly. Asking after his wellbeing.</p><p>Huan had used to give him a sloppy lick on the cheek on the occasions that Celegorm’s mood darkened in a similar manner. The hound scarcely bothered asking questions – he had always been about action, not words – but the hot roughness of that tongue against his skin had always lifted Celegorm’s spirits.</p><p>Ruina, too, was trying his best.</p><p>Celegorm stood, brushing some bits of gravel from his cloak, and stepped outside. He came to a halt next to the horse, placing a hand on Ruina’s muzzle and murmuring a few words in Quenya. No horse, no animal, would ever replace Huan – at his side since before, it seemed, his memory was still clear – but it was always heartening, nonetheless, to have a companion.</p><p>Ruina pushed his nose into Celegorm’s palm insistently, nostrils flaring. He was hungry. Celegorm unslung the satchel from around his shoulders to take out a handful of feed – the most he dared afford, right now – and as he did so, he noticed, from the corner of his vision, that Dior was staring at him. With the oblique angle, Celegorm could not make out exactly what kind of look was in the prince’s eyes, but he would have bet money (money that neither he nor his brothers had, but Maitimo could worry about that) that it was far from friendly. Especially with the way his skin prickled from the force of the stare, the instincts he had developed after years in the Woods of Oromë alerting him of someone watching with some kind of <em>intent</em>.</p><p>And the entire time Ruina was lapping up the feed from his hand, his hot, rough tongue lathering over Celegorm’s palm, Dior continued to glower.</p><p>“You must find my face truly appealing,” Celegorm said as the horse finished, smirking at Dior. The prince blinked, an expression of appalment and affront rippling across his features before it hardened into hate. His gracefully arched brows plunged downwards as he scowled – glared – at Celegorm, eyes <em>flashing </em>in earnest in a way that was unnatural of an Elda, unnatural of a Man – truly reminiscent of Oromë.</p><p>But still, nowhere near as unsettling in its brightness as the Vala had been.</p><p>Amused, Celegorm stroked Ruina between the ears before retracing his steps back into the cave. He came to a stop in front of his captive, looking down at him, boot-clad feet scarcely two falls away from coming down on Dior’s abdomen.</p><p>The youth’s gaze shifted uneasily – holding Celegorm’s eyes at first, then traveling lower, over his arms and hands, his legs and feet, sloppily concealed panic blurring with the defiance that was always laced into his stare. Perhaps instinctively, he pressed his body against the stone wall at the back of the cave, bound hands maneuvering over the ground in an attempt to cover his chest and stomach. <em>He’s worried I’m going to strike a blow while he’s down</em>, Celegorm realized. He supposed it was a reasonable concern.</p><p>Dior’s gaze rose to meet his again. Given a split second longer, Celegorm might have been able to consciously put a name to the new sentiment that flickered in the peredhel’s eyes, but he was quickly distracted; the striking silver-white of Dior’s irises flared, swirled – and, as Celegorm watched – melted, blurred, into a frigid gold so pale that he half expected it to return to silvery again. For a moment, he wondered if the lack of sleep had gotten to him, but looking again, there was no mistaking that the hue of Dior’s eyes had changed.</p><p>The years he had spent with Oromë and the many Maiar who served him notwithstanding, never had Celegorm seen any being’s eyes openly <em>change</em> color. For the first time, he regretted that he had not felt better inclined to look more closely at Lúthien Tinúviel. Had it been the same, with her? Or was it unique to her son, with the blood of all three races?</p><p><em>“You </em>must find <em>my </em>face truly appealing,” Dior hissed. His voice was quiet, and it trembled a little, but the tones were thoroughly interwoven with undisguised venom.</p><p>Celegorm laughed, strange warmth stirring in his chest at yet another display of the prince’s insistent resistance. It was similar to the eager satisfaction that he often felt when sizing up a particularly stubborn horse, thinking of all the ways that he could break the animal in.  </p><p>And, well, in fairness, Dior was right – it <em>was </em>true that Celegorm found him pleasing to look at, though there was little need to tell his captive that. Instead, unhooking the waterskin from his belt and opening it, he settled on one knee in front of the youth, holding his disdainful gaze.</p><p><em>Lilac.</em> Dior’s eyes were shifting again, into a wispy lilac shade that reminded Celegorm of those few particular dawns back in Valinórë. It had been a while since his thoughts even strayed close to them – in fact, it might be the first time since he and his brothers had set foot in the east. It had been inexplicably pleasant, rising to the beautiful sight with other Hunters and Oromë at his side, but those days were past, and he didn’t tend to like dwelling pointlessly.</p><p>“I have heard that Men die if unable to drink for three days,” Celegorm said. The thought of such defenseless frailty made him want to scoff. Findaráto’s worst, most thoughtless decision truly had been to associate himself in any way with the feeble Secondborn, and Celegorm wished he had been there with his cousin to deal him a good cuff on the jaw before he had gotten it into his head to take as ridiculous a course of action as swearing that <em>oath </em>to assist Barahir and his line.</p><p>But Findaráto was dead, had been dead for some time, and there was nothing to be done now.</p><p>“As you are my leverage against your grandfather,” he continued, banishing the image of his cousin’s impassioned smile from his mind, “I am not keen for something of the like to happen to you. And I’m sure that you are not, either.” He held the waterskin out to Dior, as he had a few hours earlier.</p><p>Dior’s gaze flitted from him to the waterskin, then back to him. Back to the waterskin. Back to him, again.</p><p>Celegorm was on the verge of giving up and withdrawing once more when the prince lurched forward, hesitant and rushing at the same time. His lips parted, latching onto the opening of the waterskin. A little caught off guard but not unhappy, Celegorm tipped the container so the water flowed from inside to into Dior’s mouth, watching in amusement as his captive drank. The sight was reminiscent of the pups he had spent time with in Valinórë, yipping and yelping and falling over themselves for their mother’s milk. The water could not be pleasant – no river water ever was, it was all bitter and tasted of minerals – but the youth did not flinch.</p><p>Seconds passed. Celegorm was about to draw back the waterskin, concerned that his captive would choke or vomit from consuming too much of the liquid too suddenly, but Dior broke away of his own volition first. Relief was filling his eyes, despite the perpetual mix of disdain and wariness in them; he had clearly been parched.</p><p>But still, in stubborn silence, he looked away from Celegorm and said nothing.</p><p>“Not a single word of gratitude?” Celegorm asked, mocking. It was strangely fun, even in a childish way, to be taunting Dior. To see how long he could keep up his bravado.</p><p>The youth’s only response was a haughty stare. That was different from his mother; Lúthien would certainly have spat some curse, or sneered at the very least. Her son did not even bother with speaking. <em>You won’t deign to reply, hm? </em></p><p>Feeling in lighter spirits after the exchange, Celegorm took his previous spot at the entrance of the cave, to peer up into the sky. He frowned. Judging from the position of the sun, it was around late noon; it would be best to move out of the cave and begin through Ossiriand by morning on the morrow. With luck, they could be across the Gelion and out of the region in a few sunsets’ time, after which Amon Ereb was not far.</p><p><em>After that, </em>thought Celegorm, <em>well, I will have to prepare for Maitimo to shout my ears off, I suppose.</em> The headache that he had staved off began to stir within the pits of his eyes again.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Celegorm: "It's about the <em>angst</em>." (Can we blame him, though? The guy might be a jerk, but he's been through a lot.)</p><p>There won't be that many chapters in Celegorm's POV, as I want to keep the story mostly centered around Dior's perspective for the time being, but it was sure interesting writing dear old Tyelko. I've always imagined that he's the kind of person to have a lot of contradictory feelings - he's annoyed at Dior's innocence but at the same time feels nostalgia because it reminds him of the past, <em>and</em> he also takes some not-so-nice entertainment from Dior's stubbornness. (All the while thinking about how gorgeous his captive is.) Unfortunately for Dior, Tyelko will probably continue to be a dick in this way for quite some time. </p><p>Regarding the characterization of the Fëanorians, it's all just speculation and conjecture with a tiny bit of extrapolation from canon. I think that they were probably squabbling a lot during their time in Amon Ereb, between the Nirnaeth Arnoediad and the Second Kinslaying. Celegorm and Curufin are especially impatient to get on with the oath, but for different reasons. Celegorm thinks the oath is a rotten mess, but he's also not the type to shy away from dirty business, and in his mind it's him and his brothers on the line here so he'll do what he has to. As for Curufin, he believes (or tries to convince himself that he believes) that everything they're doing for the oath is completely in the right. Caranthir... I think he occupies the middle ground, sort of? He knows and has no trouble admitting that the oath can get (and has gotten) pretty unsavory, but also doesn't think it's as bad, as <em>tainted</em>, as Celegorm thinks it is. For Amras, in my mind he's a little bit like Caranthir in that he's well aware of how damaging the oath can get, but at the end of the day he believes that their aim to get the Silmarils back is still righteous. Maybe the things they did were wrong, but their goal is understandable. </p><p>Maedhros and Maglor are interesting. In my opinion, at this point in time Maedhros is still pretty wary of doing anything, partly because the elves suffered a major defeat from Morgoth in the Nirnaeth Arnoediad and any moves he makes could alienate the potential allies left, and partly because he's aware, too, of how dark the oath can get and he's reluctant to start that business up again. As for Maglor, I tend to think that he allows himself to feel the guilt of the First Kinslaying the most out of all the Fëanorians, and would like to avoid that. (How he reacts when someone strongly urges him into action is another matter.)</p><p>Also, Maglor didn't canonically have a daughter; Nemmírie is an OFC. There will be quite a few original characters in here, but none of them will have particularly big roles. Our two leads are Celegorm and Dior ;) </p><p>Thank you for reading! Comments are appreciated.</p>
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